LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2277, 20 July 1881, Page 4

LITERATURE.

MARTHA PHILLIPS. Bhc was dead. An old woman wit! silvery hair, brushed smoothly away frou her wrinkled forehead, and the snowy cap tied under her chin ; a sad, quiet faco ; ■ patient mourn, with lines that told of sorrow borno with gentle firmness; aad two withered, tired hands, crossed. That waall. Who, looking at the sleeping form, would think of love and romance, of a heart only just healed of a wound received long, long years ago. Fifty years she had lived under that roof, a farmer’s wife. If yon look on that little plate on her coffin lid you will sea ‘ Aged 70 ’ there, and she was only twenty when John ’’hiilips brought her home a bride. A half century she had kept her cheerful watch over her dairy and larder, had made butter and cheese and looked after the innumerable duties that fall to the share of a farmer’s wife. And John had never gone with bnttonlesa shirt and undarned socks ; had not come home to an untidy house and a scolding wife. But underneath her quiet exterior there was a story that John never dreamed of. She did not marry for love. When she was nineteen, a rosy, happy girl a stranger came on a visit to their village, and that summer was the brightest she ever knew.

Panl Gardner was the stranger’s nam? ; he was an artist, and fell in love with the simple village girl and won her heart ; and when he went away in the autumn they were betrothed.

‘ I’ll oome again in the spring,’ ho said, ‘ Trust me and wait for me, Mattie, dear. ’

She promised to love and wait for him till the end of time, if need be, and with a kiss on her quivering Ups, he went away. Springtime came, and, true to his word, Paul returned. He staid only a day or two this time.

* I am going away in a few weeks to Italy to study,’ he said. They renewed their vows and parted with tears and tender loving words. He put a tiny ring upon her finger, and ent a little curly tress from her brown hair, and telling her always to be true, he went away. The months went by, and Mattie was trying to improve herself so that she might be worthy of her lover, when he should come back to make her his wife.

One day she glanced over a newspaper, her eyes were attracted by bis name, and with white lips and dilated eyes she read of bis marriage to another. ‘Married ! Taken another bride instead of coming back to marry me ! Oh, Paul! Paul! I loved and trusted you for this.’

She covered her face with her hands and wept bitterly. An hour afterwards, as she aat there iu the twilight, she beard a stop on the gravel walk, and looking up, saw John Phillips coming np the steps. He had been to see her often before, but had never yet spoken of love, and had received no encouragement to do so. He was a plain, hard working farmer, with no romance about him, but matter of fact to the core. Hib wife would get few caresses or tender words. He would be kind enough—give her plenty to eat and wear. Now ho seemed to have come for the express purpose of asking her to ibe his wife, for he took a chair beside her, and after the usual greeting, reserving scarcely a moment to take breath in, began in his business-like way. There was no confession of love, no pleading, no hand.olasping, no tender glances ; he simply wanted her, would she be his wife ?

Her lips moved to tell him she did not love him ; but as she let fall her eyes from the crimson hearted rose that swung from the window she caught sight of those few lines again. ‘ Married ?’she said to herself. ‘What can 1 do? He doesn’t ask me to love him If I marry him I can be a true wife to him and nobody will know that Paul has jilted me.’

Tha decision was made. Her cheeks were ashy pale as she looked up into his eyes and answered quietly—- * Yes, I will be your wife.’ Her parents were pleased that she was chosen by bo well-to-do a young man ; so it was settled, and they were married the same summer. People thought that she sobered down wonderfully; more than that, nothing was said that would lead any one to suppose that any change had taken place. Yes, she had sobered down. She dared not think of Panl. There was no hope ahead. Life was a time to be filled with something so that she might not think of herself. John was always kind, but she got so wearied of his talk of stock and crops, and said to herself—‘l must work harder, plan and fuss and bustle abont as other women do, so that I may forget and grow like John.’ Two years went by. A baby slept in the cradle, and Martha—nobody called her Mattie bat Paul—sat rocking with her foot as she knitted a bine stocking for baby’s father. There was a knock at the half-open door. ‘ Will you be kind enough to direct me to the nearest way to the village ? ’ said a voice, and a stranger stepped in. She rose to give him the required direction, when he came forward. ‘ Paul 1 ’ ‘ Mattie 1 ’ His face lighted np, and he reached out his arms. With a surprised, painful look, she crew back. ‘ Mr Gardner, this is a most unexpected meeting.’ ‘Mr Gardner! ’ repeated ; ‘ Mattie, what do you mean V ‘ Don’t call me Mattie, if you please,’ she replied, with dignity. *My name is Phillips.’ ‘ Phillips ! ’ he echoed. ‘ Are you married ? ’ 4 These are strange words from yon, Panl Gardner ; did you think I was waiting all this time for another woman’s husband ? that I was keeping my faith wiih one who played false so soon. ‘ Played you false 1 lam come as I promised yon. The two years are but just passed, and lam here to claim yon, Why do yon greet me thus ? Are yon indeed married, Mattie Grey ? ’ She was trembling like an aspen leaf. For an answer she pointed to the cradle. He came and stood before her with white face and folded arms.

‘ Tell me why you did this ! Didn’t you love me well enough to wait for me ? ’ She went and unlocked a drawer and took out a newspaper. Unfolding it and finding the place, she pointed to It with her finger, and he read the marriage notice. ‘ What of this ? ’ he asked, as he met her reproachful look. 1 Oh, Mattie 1 you thought it meant me. It is my cousin. lam not married, nor in love with any one but you,’ ‘ Are you telling the truth ?’ she asked, in an eager, husky whisper. And then, as ho replied, ‘lt is true,’ she gave a low moan, and sank down into a chair.

‘ Oh, Paul, forgive me 1 I didn’t know you had a cousin by the same name. I ought not to have doubted you. and ’twas there in black and white—and—this man, my husband, came, and I married him I ’

With hitter tears she told how it all happened. With clenched hands he walked to and fro, the i stopped beside the cradle and bent over the sleeping child. Then he turned, and kneeling before her, said in a low voice—‘l forgive you, Mattie ; be as happy as you cm,’ He took both of her bands in his, and looked steadily, lovingly into her face. His lips twitched convulsively. ‘ I have no right here; you are another man’s wife. Good-bye. God bless you!’ And she went down on her knees beside her sleeping baby and prayed for strength. They never saw one another again. Seventy years old. Her stalwart sons and bright eyed daughters remember her as a loving, devoted mother, her gray haired husband as a moat faithful wife.

‘Never was a woman more patient and kind, and as good a housewife as ever was,’ ho said as he brushed the back of his old brown hand across his eyes while looking down on the peaceful face.

And not one of them ever know of the weary he ;rt and broken hope that had died in her breast, nor even dreamed of the sad load she had borne through life.